


Now that life's a little colder

by silvereyedotaku



Series: A Thief And A Forger [5]
Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Repression, Sharing Body Heat, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Winter, cuddle or die, don’t laugh this is serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18079082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvereyedotaku/pseuds/silvereyedotaku
Summary: Papi’s hands were icy and rigid, and Louis saw him shivering. He took a deep breath and summoned the courage to tilt his body further into Papi’s arms, shaping himself around the grip of his fingers and trying to offer his own form of comfort.Papi stopped. Louis held his breath.





	1. Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> For [@snafus-gold-teeth](https://snafus-gold-teeth.tumblr.com/). Go check out their art!!  
> title from [Good Wife - MIKA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jigg4B38yGQ), which is just a very papidega song im ngl,, the lyrics...

French Guiana was so very different from what Louis had been expecting. 

It's not like his lawyer hadn't warned him, away from the scared, easily-upset ears of his wife - but it'd been in that subtle, subtextual way that was everywhere in high society. It was in the words that were exchanged at dinner parties, in the gentle touch of his wife's hand on his in a crowded restaurant, in Louis' own mouth when he pried the inhibitions from rich, counterfeit bond-buying old men. 

He was perfectly aware that his lawyer was sugarcoating things, but in some ways that was why he'd hired him. He'd thought he could leave the dirty work to the ridiculously overpaid man, and hide himself in the shadows until he was sentenced, away from the prying eyes of the newspapers and the associates he foolishly used to call friends. 

It went without saying that the thousands of francs he was paying him were supposed to get his charges appealed before the year was up. 

He'd seen no reason to fear his expectedly short stay behind bars - his time at the local prison had been quite amiable.  The staff there had been aware that he had more than enough money to pay a normal bail; however, his charges had been ruled a special case, and he wasn't presented the opportunity to return home. He presumed the judge had thought him too unpredictable to be allowed to go back to his living quarters and possibly contact his inner circle. 

It was flattering to know people thought of him as dangerous - he knew that perception wouldn't last on the inside. Still, he wasn't _afraid,_ per se. 

His interactions with those he met at the local holding facility were borderline pleasant. He had his own cell, so he needn't worry about the other criminals, and the guards were nice enough to him, appreciating his cultivated manners. He'd trusted them automatically, and in turn, they treated him well. 

He'd assumed he would be able to extend the same trust to the authority in French Guiana, and receive protection from the tougher types he was sure he'd encounter. What he hadn't been able to predict was the way his image of prison guards had been warped by wealth and class and naivety. 

The other men knew off the boat not to trust the guards any further than they could throw them, but Louis wasn't so lucky. 

Before his sentence, before he'd even considered himself a criminal, he'd thought of all forms of police and law enforcers as on the side of justice. Sure, he may have seen them as brutes, but they were there to control, to break up fights, to help. 

It was difficult to reconcile that with the unseeing, uncaring, unbothered men who watched them fight and hurt one another without a hint of remorse.

Needless to say, the Penal Colony delivered on a lot of things Louis hadn't imagined - pain and paranoia were in endless supply when every moment could be his last. 

One thing he certainly couldn't have predicted, though, was the weather. 

His thoughts were interrupted as a violent shudder wracked through him, sending his teeth chattering in the cold. 

He recalled feeling burnt to a crisp just hours ago, when the sun was at its highest point in the sky, down at Route Zero. His uniform still reeked of sweat from the demanding work coupled with the heat. 

The climate in French Guiana was an unpredictable nightmare - one night it would be so hot and sticky that Louis' obsessively-smoothed hair would turn to tight, wet curls in minutes, and the next it would be cold enough freeze inmates to death. 

Louis had watched it happen once before, and even after all the shit he'd seen, he had fully expected the authority to issue thicker blankets, to lessen the workload, to do _something,_ when faced with the body of one of their prisoners, weakened by fevered exhaustion and pushed over the edge by the low temperatures.  Instead, it was met with the same bored apathy that came with the power the guards yielded over them. It was a sentiment that terrified Louis. 

He shivered again, chest trembling. 

The cold wasn't the same breed as the brisk breezes and snowy spells back in Marseille - this chill sunk bone-deep, permeating every nerve in his being and settling over his shoulders like a one hundred pound weight. It hurt like the work on the railroad never could. 

His hands shook as he pulled the threadbare excuse for a blanket tighter around his shoulders.  Usually, he'd lie on top of it, as it provided alleviation from the slabs of concrete they called beds, helping him sleep. Right now, sleep seemed impossible, so Louis let the hard surface scratch at his neck and his ankles, where they were cuffed to the bottom of the bed. 

His body twitched, trying to adjust to the warmest possible position. On another night, he might have worried about waking up the other prisoners with his fidgeting, but the cold made all his other worries seem petty and stupid. 

Besides, if the rustling around him was anything to go on, most of them were suffering from the same issue he was. 

He resented those who had already fallen to sleep, but also dreaded their actions. Complacency was a dangerous thing, and if the cold crept into their brain and started to stop it, they'd be none the wiser. 

Louis shifted again, turning away from the wall and back towards the centre of the room. 

He stilled when he sensed eyes on him. 

It was too dark to see any more than grey shapes, but he spotted the shine of open eyes a few inches from his face. The glimmer disappeared as Papi blinked. 

He was shivering as well - Louis heard his teeth clacking together in the quiet. He looked around, at a loss for what to do. 

His foot gave an involuntary kick, knocking against Papi's cuff. He winced in pain, and the shine followed his own eyes down to where their ankles lay restrained in the dark. 

Louis felt his pulse quicken, thrumming in his wrists and neck. If he was experiencing spasms, what was next? 

His mind supplied him with several grim possibilities. He saw himself dead by morning, body stiff and frosted. The turnkey would come by and unlock his corpse, not even noticing that his limbs were rigid.  Maybe it would take up until it inconvenienced them before anyone noticed his eyes were stuck open and empty behind his glasses, gone along with the inconsistent cold. 

_Oh God._  His breathing began to pick up, chest rising and falling rapidly. He sucked in air raggedly, the temperature stabbing though his airways like a knife. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Papi move. Louis heard him restraining himself from panting, gritted teeth preventing the same gasps bursting from Louis' lips from leaving him. 

Knuckles bumped against his side and Louis startled. Papi's hands were clenched into trembling fists, and even with Louis' skin temperature dipping below what felt like zero, Papi's fingers were still ice against him. 

Louis felt raw panic bloom in his chest. He didn't let himself think what it would be like if Papi fell victim to the chill. 

However, undefined, nightmarish pictures still flitted across his mind, unbidden. He felt the familiar throb of hysteria rising in his throat as he was accosted by the image of Papi’s mouth permanently agape in death, of him being left alone to survive without his protector and friend. 

It pained Louis in way so profound that he didn’t care to examine it

He sensed Papi shift cautiously in the dark, turning his body to face where Louis lay closest to the window. They stared at each other for a second, Louis tracking the change in the shine of Papi’s eyes like a hunter. 

Then Papi leaned closer, hands creeping over Louis’ forearms, rubbing the skin there with force enough to create fiction. Louis almost passed out at the sudden burst of heat. 

Papi’s hands were still icy though, and Louis saw him shuddering. He took a deep breath and summoned the courage to tilt his body further into Papi’s arms, shaping himself around the grip of his fingers and trying to offer his own form of comfort. 

Papi stopped. Louis held his breath. 

Without a word, the larger man resumed his firm touches, the feeling slowly returning to Louis’ arms. Louis grabbed the edge of his blanket, pulling it over his torso as well as Papi’s hands and forearms. 

Hidden under the sparsely threaded material, Papi inched forward against him, until their chests were flush against each other, legs that weren’t cuffed tangling between them. 

Louis went dead still. The closer Papi pushed against him, the less the initial chill of the larger man’s skin affected him.  His internal furnace began to reach through the layers of clothing, chasing away the aching numbness. It was like coming home to a crackling fire. 

How strange, Louis thought, that he should find that in the hard planes of another man’s body. 

He was convinced his mind was malfunctioning as the ice settled into it, because he didn’t spare a thought for how bizarre this situation was; he simply sighed at the newfound warmth enveloping him. 

A distant echo sounded through his ears, a preacher, something resembling his father’s tough hand, a condemning sermon, but Louis couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the priest is his head is so angry about. 

It’s not like it mattered anyway, the man’s words were useless. 

There was no God in French Guiana. 


	2. Late night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do ppl still read papillon fic lol

Papi watched Dega curled up in arms carefully, nodding to himself as Dega’s breathing rate slowed to normal. 

When the idea first crossed his mind, he’d been choked with angry reluctance, unwilling to confront the implications of the way they were touching each other - but he knew he had to do something. Still, when he’d agreed to do what was necessary to help Dega on that doomed ship all those months ago, this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

The blood in his veins felt like it had been slowing as the temperatures decreased, life trickling away in droplets of ice. However, he could feel their body heat mixing, spreading and forming a bubble enclosing them. Any intention to do nothing, inspired by the inmates taunts and rare anxiety over how Dega would react, had been destroyed the second he felt how violently Dega was shaking. 

Cupping him against his chest, he was abruptly reminded of a frosty morning back in Paris. 

It must’ve been a year or two ago - he’d been dozing with Nenette in his little flat in London, when they’d heard a thump against the window.

Nenette was up in an instant, jumpy and beautiful as the morning sun glinting against the snow lining the ground. He’d watched the shifting light glide across her china-white collarbones and the dip of her breasts as she moved to the balcony, uncaring for their neighbours as she flung open the shutters. 

Papi had only thought to rise when she let out a gasp of dismay, sinking to her knees on the balcony and touching something on the ground.

He’d placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her inside and rubbing away sleep. She looked up at him, eyes wet with tears, and showed him what she was cradling. 

In her palm was a tiny grey bird. It’s feathers were askew and it was lying sickeningly still. 

“He must’ve flown into the window.” she murmured, curling her fingers over the bird’s wings, which lay spread and unmoving. 

Papi cleared his throat and gestured vaguely, unsure what to do. “If it’s dead, or sick, you probably shouldn’t touch it.” 

Nenette’s head shot up, expression distraught. “How can you say that?” she hissed, tears threatening to spill. “Look at it. Poor thing, it was probably the cold...” She trailed off into soft, distressed mumbling, tears spilling and spiking her dark lashes into points. 

Papi grabbed the sheets from the bed, wrapping them around her shoulders, creating a trail from the bed to her. 

He laid a kiss against the corner of her lips. “Sorry. Here-“ He put his hand over hers, tipping the bird’s body into his own grasp.

Papi stared down at it, feeling the faint thrum of a heartbeat against his fingers. The tiny thing’s skeleton seemed close to shattering, spine paper-thin. In that second, he understood Nenette’s reaction and strange, sudden sadness. Holding it in his hands, the bird’s death seemed like the worst thing that could possibly happen. 

He moved hesitant thumbs over the creature’s chest, brushing at feathers and clumsily hoping to offer some comfort. Nenette let out a damp sigh, the edge of a sob prevalent in the sound. He repeated the motion, touching wings and trying to move them back into something resembling a normal position. 

His stomach clenched as one of the bird’s legs twitched. He glanced at Nenette, checking to see if he’d imagined it, but she had her eyes fixed determinedly on the bird, hand over her mouth. 

He continued his ministrations, and was rewarded with a flutter of the bird’s wing. An embarrassingly enormous smile split his face and he stroked its quivering wings, placing the bird on the bed next to them. 

Nenette wrapped her arms around him from behind, nuzzling at his shoulder as they watched; Papi could feel the shape of her smile against his skin. The bird shifted a couple more times, before settling on the mattress, folding it’s wings around itself. 

It was a couple more minutes before they realised it wasn’t resting - that it had breathed a final breath and gone stiff. 

Papi’s smile had dropped from his face and he’d seized the fragile little thing in his rough palm, fingers too harsh and too late to do any good. The bird was dead. 

Nenette had cried for what felt like hours. He’d been half inclined to do the same. 

After that they’d always kept the shutters open in unspoken agreement, buying thicker and thicker blankets as the weather became crueler, but never closing the windows.

His eyes linger on the fine outline of Dega’s neck and the way his ribs move under his skin when he breathes shallowly. His mind supplies him with the image - the broken angles of that creatures body, of it’s delicate little bones, so easily broken, inside Dega’s limbs. 

He thinks of the bird’s weak little heart, pumping out it’s final beats in his useless hands, and clutches Dega harder against him. 

The smaller man shivers, and Papi’s body lets out a twin shudder. 

He thinks about how that bird had worked its way into his heart without him realising it, how it’d planted roots of affection deep within him before he’d even noticed he cared. He thinks about the pain its very existence put on Nenette’s face. He thinks about Dega on the boat, eyes wild and terrified, a threat around every corner, but still turning down his proposal with polite, practiced wit. 

He thinks about how he’s thrown himself at the men, and fought for Dega, despite the fact that knew little more than the man’s name and hadn’t even agreed on a deal with him yet. 

Some puzzle pieces are slotting together and things are falling to place. His mind is starting to draw some conclusions he doesn’t want to think about. 

Why had he been so ready to risk his life, with no guarantee of a reward forthcoming? Why did he continue to protect Dega at all turns, suffering gratuitous injury and exhaustion, so that just in case the possibility of escape arose, he’d have funding to facilitate it? 

No, this was about something more. This was about whatever had bloomed in his chest as he watched the little, grey bird die on the linen of the bed he slept in every night. 

Dega was the bird - Dega’s always been the bird, pathetic and fragile enough that Papi aches to help him, irreversibly bound to him without even realising. The difference is, this time he knows how to save him. He can’t do anything about the distance from Marseilles, or the poorly concealed loneliness in the way he draws his wife’s smile, but he can keep him alive. 

Another thought stabs through his brain, sluggish in the cold but still working well enough to slice through him like a knife to the back. Only alive  _ until  _ \- until he escapes, until he forgets Dega, until he takes Dega’s money and indirectly, by robbing him of a protector, his life.

Papi was plagued by guilt at the thought. 

His heart jumped into his throat as Dega twisted against him, thinking for one paranoid second that his thoughts had been intense enough to worm their way out of his mouth uninvited. He feared that the throbbing regret had wormed its way into Louis’ dreams and whispered in horrid, honest words about Papi’s intention to leave and never come back tomorrow, if the opportunity presented itself.

Instead, Louis is just turning to face the wall, pressing his back against Papi’s front so the larger man’s upper body is draped over him. 

The position shift exposes Papi’s arms to the icy wind whistling through the grated windows of the barracks, but he resolves himself to toughing it out. He doesn’t feel like analysing why exactly he accepts this undoubted misfortune if it means that Dega will be warmer. 

Papi never was one to examine the inner workings of his mind too deeply; even when the bird died, Papi put it out of his mind relatively quickly, until just then, when the image had sprouted out of his memories like it was an old flower and the trembling texture of Dega’s skin was a fresh breath of rain. 

He knew the way Dega agonised over every little thing, how he likes to pick at his thoughts like a child at a scab. Half the time he was convinced that Dega enjoyed it when he worked himself into a panic, like the pain-tinged joy of uncovering a wet, red wound from beneath clotted blood. 

He has no doubt that this closeness will be a point of contention, come morning. He just can’t bring himself to care when his mind is shutting itself down slowly, guiding him into unconsciousness.


	3. Early morning

Dega woke with a start as the early morning humidity began to sink into his skin. The lack of rustling notified him of the fact that the rest of the men had yet to wake up. It was hard to tell how long he had until roll call, but based on the relatively faint light outside, Dega estimated around twenty minutes. 

He moved to roll over, towards the window, but found himself unable. 

The reason for this made itself known when he looked to his left, finding that Papi’s arm had worked its way around his shoulders, the weight of it pressing his face into the bed. He shifted from where he lay on his front, trying to put some distance between them.

In the early morning buzz, the levity of their actions was settling over him.

His efforts yielded no results, prompting only light grumbling from Papi and him winding his other arm around Dega’s waist, pulling him close.

Dega wriggled, fighting as subtly as he could against the stronger man’s vice-like grip. He placed his palms against Papi’s shoulders from where they were trapped between both of their chests, and pressed Papi back gently.

Then the unimaginable happened. Papi’s hand shifted from Dega’s shoulder to- to pet his hair.

He stiffened. Was this a mean-spirited joke? He didn’t think so. Papi didn’t have anyone to share the joke in here except Dega - Celier was in another set of barracks, Julot was long gone  - and _he_ sure as hell wasn’t laughing.

He remembered the heart-stopping cold of last night and the way Papi had shielded him with his body, sharing their body heat. Since then, they’d clearly moved in sleep, winding themselves around each other and switching position. He recalled how Papi had initiated this strange embrace they’d landed themselves in, and allowed himself to hope that he’d be met with no harsh words, should Papi wake up and find him still pressed against him.

The hand in his hair moved in slow, soothing circles. Dega felt his eyes flutter shut for a moment, the feeling reminiscent of the way his mother used to brush her fingers through his hair when she read to him, before snapping out of it. It was time to stop this.

Papi didn’t seem to agree, murmuring something in his sleep as the arm on his waist tightened. Dega couldn’t help listening as he continued, curiosity getting the better of him.

He heard a sigh, followed by a soft whisper of “Nennete...”

Oh God. He fought back a wave of anger, of jealousy, at the name. He caught himself, baffled at what the early morning bleariness let slip.

He worried for all of two minutes at that envy squirming in his throat, before he realised that he was jealous of Papi. That must be it.

The thought of finding his wife’s presence here - even in dream form - was almost enough to bring him to tears. Papi was lucky. He was having a dream about his sweetheart back home, and had grabbed whatever was closest to treat like her - which happened to be Dega thanks to their freezing huddling last night.

That was understandable. Dega would even be generous and make himself forget the whole thing, if he could just extract himself from Papi’s embrace.

The room still being relatively quiet was the only upside of this situation. Louis wasn’t sure he could handle the humiliation of the other inmates seeing him held like a tiny teddy bear.

He felt Papi stirring beside him, waiting in anticipation and relief for him to wake up and shove Dega off. Instead, Papi’s mouth nuzzled into his neck, mouth still moving in his sleep.

Dega stifled a shriek when Papi’s lips brushed his throat, feather-light accidental touches. He was sure he looked ridiculous, eyes as big as dinner plates, weaker than his companion even in sleep. Papi’s hot breath spread over his neck, making the hairs on the backs of his arms rising. Dega told himself it was disgust.

“Nennete.” There it was again, that name.

Dega indulged himself for a second, imagining what the owner of it looked like. He had difficulty recalling a time Papi had talked about her, so he invented his own details.

He pictured her to have deep, caramel skin - something told him Papi didn’t pair with the fair, pale little waifs Paris boasted by the metric tonne. No, he’d want his girl to look different, with strong black eyes and a tanned complexion. Now the hair would be short and dark, to show she was stylish but also practical, with the touch of curls to it. She would be outspoken and intelligent, there was no doubt in his mind. Papi wouldn’t want a girl who would bend to his every whim, he’d want the fight, the passion that came with loving someone strong-willed.

“Nenette,” Papi breathed. “You fucking-“ He cut himself off with a sleepy groan.

Dega blanched, scandalised thanks to the loathsome years of not saying what he really meant. That was hardly the way Papi should be talking to the woman he loved, even if she wasn’t here to take offence, his mind supplied.

He briefly pondered what exactly had been the nature of their relationship back home. Perhaps sweetheart wasn’t the right word.

His priorities were thrown into perspective when Papi’s hand at his waist gripped at his prison uniform, tugging at it, reminding him he had bigger problems that needed his immediate attention. He was tempted to just resign himself to the inevitable awkwardness when Papi woke.

It seemed easier to lie there passively, letting Papi hold him. There was a certain element of sympathy to his idea. God knew every man in here was desperate the sweetness of a human touch without violent or sadistic intentions.

He had felt the hard shell he’d build around his heart (the same one that prevented him from kissing his wife in front of the other prisoners as her and his lawyer said their sincere goodbyes to him) crack a couple of times, watching the men in here. Before prison, before the Marseilles police knocked his door down, he’d been victim to the opinion that criminals didn’t deserve his consideration.

Life in French Guiana had proved him wrong again and again.

That wasn’t to say the men didn’t partake in daily cruelty - the need for his arrangement with Papi was proof of that - but the situation was certainly more multifaceted than he’d been lead to believe by upper-class life.

He even sympathised with those who performed said cruelty, too smart to convince himself they were doing it due to some kind of deep-rooted evil.

He knew that not everyone had the luck he had, nor the finances to pay for a protector. For some, cruelty was the only option.

Still, Louis had taken to watching the men in quiet moments, finding them to reveal secrets about themselves in open intimacy.

He saw it on the other inmates’ faces when they watched the sun set outside the compound, admiring the golden oranges and reminded that there was something bigger than them, than these prison walls, at work in the world.

He heard it when they spoke of home, tenderness hidden behind brusque, careless boasting of which girl they pulled or which trinket they stole. He read it in their eagerness, their simple joy at one of the hot meals served to them once in a blue moon.

He noticed it in the way Celier grinned at Papi, friends who could’ve been sailors together in another life.

This inquisitiveness was very much a double edged sword. It inspired empathy with those who wanted to hurt him, and had very often lead to scrapes that Papi only just managed to pull him out of.

Papi shifted again, hushed tones growing more insistent. He whispered his girl’s name Dega’s neck once more, betraying garbled details of his plans for her. If Dega strained his ears, he could pick up something about a circus.

Then Papi shuddered against him, arms clenching hard. Louis was astonished, once again, at the power held coiled in the fibre of his muscles. He wondered when Papi had begun to consolidate his strength, when he realised this quality was necessary in his life. He was abruptly accosted by the vision of Papi as a child, cowering away from his parents, and channeling that fear into ability.

Louis only wished he could’ve taken the same route, having been unable to transform his pain into anything other than an aversion to being in close proximity with any man who had more than twenty pounds heavier than him. That was prior to his conviction, when he’d actually had a say in the matter.

Maybe Papi’s childhood hadn't really been like his own. Maybe he'd lived happily in the countryside - Louis remembered him mentioning owning a farm in passing - with a sweet, soft-spoken mother who'd read him stories and a kind father who'd tell him jokes and give thoughtful advice.

Louis’ chest filled with a warm flutter of yearning; he hoped against hope that Papi’s childhood had been one of trekking through muddy fields, guided by gentle, caring parental figures. He hoped so hard he felt his hands clench into fists. 

Louis clenched his eyes shut, sweat beading on his crumpled brow. He willed himself back to sleep just as he felt Papi begin to stir awake, cautiously dancing around the possibility of them seeing each other's vulnerability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas is it gay to imagine ur bro's gf to look exactly like u???


End file.
